Those That We Knew
by samalane
Summary: Recovering from illness, Zuko wonders why it has to be Lieutenant Jee who reminds him of her. Jeeko.


A/N: Written for the 'New Years' prompt exchange over on the jeeko tumblr, princebender. The setting is basically a spinoff of the ongoing round-robin AU which has yet to be named.

_"Jee is looking after Zuko (because he's ill or injured or… you decide!) and does something that reminds Zuko viscerally of his mother in a way that is painful (perhaps a particular saying, or physical gesture). Jee notices, and conversation ensues about Zuko's complicated family history. -Anonymous"_

* * *

_Those That We Knew_

* * *

Zuko looked utterly miserable, huddled on the small futon under every blanket and cloak they had with them in the small cottage. Jee had the fire stoked and was alternating between feeding it and Zuko's flame with his own, trying desperately to keep the kid warm.

It had been a very long time since Jee had had to take care of an ill person. But here, alone and lost in the Earth Kingdom, he had no one to turn to. He had done this before, years ago, when he had been as young as Zuko himself and on the battlefield, too far away to call for a medic when one of them had been hit with some foreign virus or went into shock from a festering wound.

He tried to keep his hands steady as he replaced the damp rag on Zuko's forehead, tried to stay calm as he helped the boy sit up to drink a bit of water. Zuko was shivering so badly that most of the water went down his front, but if there was anything Jee remembered about illness it was that a person with a fever had to be kept hydrated – and Zuko was running one _hell_ of a fever. The brat ran hot naturally, but this was obscene and extremely dangerous, even for a firebender.

It had come on quickly, the illness. A slight cough and a flushed face – by the evening he had been shivering and unable to sit on his mount without help. Nearly thirty-six hours later and Jee was hoping that the fever would break soon, because it hadn't lowered any and he was starting to worry in earnest.

After everything – after all they had been through – to lose him to _illness_, of all things –

Zuko made a hoarse gasping noise, almost like a sob. His good eye cracked open.

"C-cold," He managed. Jee felt himself grimace as he leant forward and laid the back of his hand against Zuko's cheek, wincing at the heat.

"You're burning up," He murmured. "I don't have anymore blankets."

"I'm cold," Zuko said again, his voice high. "'M _cold_, Jee."

What else could he do? He wasn't sure if he should climb into bed and warm the kid with his own fire – he was so hot already, and Jee didn't know what to do. If only the fever would break, then Jee could get him up on their mount and try to make it to the next town before he took a turn for the worse. He was positive it had something to do with the untreated wounds – infection, likely, and Jee was even less prepared to deal with that then he was a fever.

All he could really do was turn the damp rag over and hope that it helped a little.

Zuko made that horrible sobbing sound again and Jee wanted to scream because there was nothing he could _do_. He had no medicine, no tea, absolutely _nothing_ – they had been lucky to find the abandoned shack, out here in the forest. At least there was a hearth and a bed, some shelter from the elements.

"_Shh_," Jee whispered when Zuko's dry sobbing didn't stop. "_Shh_, _shh_. It'll be okay. Try and sleep, you'll be okay. You'll be fine, you'll warm up soon," And that was all he had to offer the boy, useless mutterings and empty promises. In reality, he feared that Zuko wouldn't make it through the night, as his breathing grew laboured.

No, _no_. He couldn't – Jee was no doctor, but surely the brat wasn't so ill that he would die. He was just overworked, he was in shock, one of his wounds had gotten a little infected – he _couldn't_ die.

But Jee was no doctor. He couldn't tell for certain.

He would never know how he made it through those dark hours before dawn. His heart had been in his throat, eyes stinging and utter hopelessness rising in him, nearly overwhelming him at times as Zuko's shaking refused to cease. The boy swam in and out of consciousness, utterly delirious and mumbling nonsense. At one point he started crying, hoarse, gasping sobs as he pleaded with his father, his mother, his sister. The words left Jee feeling cold. It scared him, to see Zuko reduced to this. Even bound in chains he had not seemed this fragile.

It was only in the grey mist of dawn, just before the first fingers of sunlight reached over the horizon, when Jee realized that Zuko's shaking had lessened, that his temperature had decreased. The fever had broken.

With trembling hands he had caressed Zuko's face, his sweaty hair, and then laid his hand overtop his heart, where Jee could feel the rhythmic pounding of his heart and the faint thrum of fire in his veins.

It was this reassurance of life that finally lulled him into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

When Zuko awoke, he was expecting to see his mother sitting by his bed.

He wasn't at all surprised to find Jee sitting there instead, head pillowed on his arms. No, what surprised him was that he had expected his mother to be there at all.

He had made a point of not thinking about her long ago. It hurt too much.

Yet he had. And the old sorrow was rising in him again with the realization that she still wasn't there, and she likely wasn't ever going to be.

He stared at Jee, who frowned even in sleep, and wondered what it was that had made him think of his mother like that, when he had worked so hard to lock her memory deep down inside of him, where it couldn't hurt any longer.

This had happened before, he realized slowly. A very long time ago, when he had still been child. He had been ill, very ill. So ill that the entire palace thought he was going to die – Lu Ten and Azula hadn't been allowed to see him. He remembered that; he also remembered that the servants had been banned from the room and only the royal physician and his mother had been allowed in his room.

His father hadn't come to see him at all.

He didn't remember much of the fever dreams, but he did remember the vague consciousness of his mother's steady presence, her cool hand smoothing back his hair and her whispers of reassurance. He remembered her soft arms holding him when his body was so cold that it hurt, and her low voice singing old lullabies and forbidden folksongs.

He remembered waking to her exhausted smile. She had still been beautiful, even with dark circles ringing her eyes and an unhealthy pallor to her skin. She had looked so triumphant and he had been so relieved to see her again.

He remembered Jee holding him, this time: touching his face and his hair and talking to him. And it was ridiculous because Jee was nowhere near a maternal figure, but the connection was there, tenuous though it was, and Zuko wondered why it was the two of _them_ he had linked, rather than his uncle and Jee –

There was a reason. But he couldn't give it shape – didn't want to give it shape, lest it turn on him again. He had already lost her, no need to lose him too.

He wasn't even aware of reaching out to touch Jee, his fingers landing gently on his cheek. The touch was soft, even to Zuko, but Jee's eyes snapped open, quickly focusing on him.

"Hey," His voice was nigh unrecognizable, but something shifted in Jee's face and despite his obvious exhaustion his expression lightened.

"How are you feeling?" He didn't even call him _sir_. Zuko didn't care. He managed to curl up one corner of his mouth in a smile and Jee brushed some hair from his face, resting the back of his hand on Zuko's forehead.

His relief was palpable.

"Your fever broke," he said. He looked back and Zuko and smiled. "Thank Agni."

_Agni be praised_, his mother had said. Jee smiled that same smile, relief, affection and concern all wrapped up into one and Zuko felt his own face twist in agony, in joy, and he didn't even know what to feel anymore. He started to laugh, but his throat was so dry that he ended up choking.

And then Jee was supporting him with an arm around his back and gently tipping a cup of water back for him. The water was cool and Zuko drank it all, thirstier than he had realized. When he was laid back down he smiled a little at Jee, who smiled back so tenderly that Zuko was sure his heart was going to burst.

"You scared me, sir," he murmured, carding a hand though Zuko's hair. His touch was gentle and Zuko had to close his eyes against the vision of his mother. Why did it have to be _them_?

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Jee rubbed his cheek with his thumb and Zuko opened his eyes again.

"It wasn't your fault, sir."

_You scared me, darling! I'm so glad to see you awake._

"I'm sorry I scared you," Zuko said, and he wasn't quite sure whom he was responding to anymore. He closed his eyes again, trying to erase his mother's image from his mind's eye. He _didn't want_ to remember.

"Sir."

_Zuko…_

"Did you know," Zuko said slowly, uncertain of why he was saying this. "That you remind me of my mother, right now?"

The look of discomfort and horror that flashed across the older man's face should have been funny –except what he said was the truth and it was deeply unsettling.

"...Oh," Jee replied, his voice strangled.

"It's a good thing," Zuko murmured, closing his eyes again. "I loved her so much."

The silence was profound and Zuko wearily wished he had kept his mouth shut. He was so tired and his chest hurt. He didn't want to talk.

He couldn't stop, though.

"I miss her."

"Sir," Jee was most definitely not his mother. They shared nothing, except for perhaps a very remarkable and unending patience for Zuko and his stupidity. His mother had loved him, he _knew_ that, despite everything – and Jee certainly seemed to like him, at least. "Sir, you don't need to talk about this now. You're exhausted; you're nowhere near better yet. You should rest."

"I am resting," Zuko countered. "I'm lying down. And I'm talking. About my mother."

He could see the blatant curiosity warring with concern on Jee's face. He was certain that the other man wanted to know how Zuko had managed to connect to two in his mind. Indeed, Zuko hardly understood, except that this had happened before in another time, with another person.

And yet somehow, they were one and the same. There was a shared quality between the man he supposed was his lover and the woman who had once been his mother.

He was almost certain he knew what it was. He jus couldn't bring himself to recognize it.

_Silly duck, don't be sorry. I just love you so much – I couldn't stand to lose you._

"I don't even know if she's alive," he closed his eyes and stopped fighting; he couldn't really picture her any longer. Could describe her appearance, but her exact image refused to materialize in his mind. "She was banished years ago. When I was ten."

A sharp inhalation. So nobody knew – he had rather thought that was the case. It seemed very few people knew about his own banishment as well.

"I ...hadn't known that, sir. I was under the assumption she was still living in the palace."

"No," Zuko said needlessly. "She disappeared the night my grandfather died. My father said she had been banished."

It didn't take a genius to put things together. But Zuko had never been the brightest and it was only now, when he was too tired to pretend otherwise, that he finally allowed the pieces to come together and realize the truth.

It was his fault, too.

"She did it because of me," he whispered to the darkness behind his eyelids. "She told me – she said that everything she had done was to protect me," and his voice _wasn't_ growing tight, most definitely wasn't hitching with every breath –

"...Do you know what she did, sir?"

Zuko exhaled a shaky breath.

"No, not really," But he knew, he _did_, he knew it now and oh _Agni_, he wished he didn't.

He felt inclined to defend her, but what could he say? That his sister had come into his room, taunting him? That his mother had heard her and – and then what? Zuko didn't know what had happened after she spoke with Azula. She might have spoken to his father, he realized with a jolt of dread. If Azula hadn't been lying, for once, and she had gone to hear the truth from Ozai –

He couldn't bear it. The truth was too horrible to comprehend and he fought desperately against the howl of misery clawing up his throat. It couldn't be true – but it _was_, Azula hadn't lied and everything had been because of _him_ –

He had been meant to die.

"Sir."

He opened his eyes.

"Sir, whatever your mother did, she did it because she loved you," And she most certainly did something, Zuko thought wearily. The proof was in the history scrolls, now. "People do unreasonable things to protect the people they love."

Zuko thought of his uncle, who had given up a life of comfort in the palace to accompany him on his quest. His uncle, who had put up with Zuko's insults and rage and temper for years, all with good grace. His uncle, who refused to go home until Zuko was safely returned to him.

"I guess so," Zuko mumbled. Jee smiled at him, a little wry and largely cynical and it was so normal, so reassuring that it almost made him smile back.

"I broke you out of prison, sir."

The sentiment was very obvious. He couldn't have made it more obvious, and that was it, Zuko supposed. That was why he had woken up expecting his mother.

"I wasn't very healthy as a child," Zuko said allowing a small smile to slip over his features. "I was very ill, once. They thought I was going to die. My mother stayed up for two nights at my bedside."

There was comprehension dawning on the other man's features.

"You smiled like she did, when I woke up."

"Oh," Jee said. There was silence again, but less heavy than before. There was a warm hand resting by his shoulder and Zuko reached for it. Larger than his own, definitely larger than his mothers and infinitely warmer, even though she had been a bender too.

"Don't leave."

He just didn't want to be alone – surely it was okay to lean on somebody else for a little while, after everything that had happened. He was so tired, but the last time –

She had never come back.

"I'm not going anywhere, sir," Jee said, with such familiar dedication and affection and Zuko felt like crying.

He believed him.

"I know," Zuko murmured, allowing his eyes to slip shut. "I know. But I don't want you to leave."

He felt familiar, dry lips press against his knuckles.

"I won't leave you, sir. Not until you want me to."

Zuko wished he had the strength to respond, because that was good, he didn't want Jee to leave him. He was tired of being alone, tired of having to fight for everything, sick of begging for affection and regard that was never going to be given to him, especially not now –

He didn't want to be alone anymore.

"Don't want you to," he managed to mumble. "Don't wanna be alone."

"You're not. I'm not leaving you," and that was the difference, Zuko thought exhaustedly. His mother had left him, in the end. But Jee wouldn't, and Zuko wasn't entirely certain how he knew this, but he _did_, with every fiber of his being.

"You can sleep, sir," Jee said gently. "I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

"_Thank you_," he breathed. Jee's hand was warm in his, his fire steady and warm and _there_, bolstering Zuko's own weak flame and it was enough, for the moment. It was enough to take the comfort that was being given and trust in the man who had given Zuko every reason to trust him.

It was enough.


End file.
